Armadilha Fatal

This is one of those movies that ought to be good, but isn't. Probably because the dictates of plot require characters to change their stripes every 10 minutes, so that by the time we reached plot twist number 20, the willing suspension of disbelief is gone.

Too bad, too, because the setup is a good one, and star Virginia Mayo is a babe of the first order. Is Virginia Mayo a selfish wench that does not care that she is dating a gangster who casually orders his enemies killed? Or is she just clueless, because the gangster has been to the right schools, and does romantic banter in the best old movie tradition? Who knows? The tension could have been interesting, but the melodrama of the plot requires that those questions be dumped, as the well-educated, successful gangster makes some really stupid business management decisions, and new characters show up, act foolishly, and kick the plot in predictable directions. But hang on until the absolute end of the movie to see perhaps the most inappropriate romantic gesture EVER.

Impoverished debutante Virginia Mayo and gambling house owner Bruce Bennett start an affair. Miss Mayo calls it off on the advice of her brother, Doctor Robert Hutton. Then Bennett gets shot dealing with one of his welshing customers. Hutton treats him. Fearful he will report the gunshot wound to the police, Bennett's henchmen kill him.

Richard L. Bare's first feature has a good script, fine camerawork by Ted McCord, and Tom D'andrea giving good advice while looking like he's been eating persimmons. Bennett's dry, lecturing style of speaking works well to indicate he's careful about what he says, but Miss Mayo isn't quite up to the requirements of a leading lady on an emotional roller coaster. Keep an eye open for Phyllis Coates as a cigarette girl. I imagine she's working undercover for her paper.

This isn't bad but it has a false ring. Virginia Mayo is OK. At the start we hear about her being from a high society family with no money left to back that up. This gets lost.

She gets involved in a gambling house raid. The proprietor kind of likes her and also sees her as someone he could use. Enter her brother, the honest "Doc," just out of medical school. He sets her straight about the bad guys but they kill him.

The settings are believable -- clubs, apartments, streets. But it has no sense of reality. It's very formulaic.

The lower budget studios like PRC and Republic -- where have those all gone? They used to appear on local TV regularly -- did noir well. And surprisingly, MGM did it very well too.

Warner Bothers, which released this, had some very good ones but they were of a distinct kind. They were about detectives often, though "Nora Prentice" has the same leading man and is head and shoulders above this.

In sum, it moves along but it doesn't really work.

Ms. Mayo must have been friends with bit part player Helen Westcott, who had a fine career, because I remember both of them fondly from the film Flaxy Martin. I can't help but wonder if Mayo got Westcott her part in this film. Westcott's performance here is formidable, especially when questioned by the police; but my fondness of her is from Flaxy Martin.

As far as Smart Girls Don't Talk, I think it's the script that truly drags down this potential entry in the noir style. It's difficult to fault the director. Cinematography is good. Lighting not so noir.

I confess I've seen this at least five times, and yet I'm still not sure why. Is it because sometimes subpar is entertaining? Is it because it's Mayo? It's certainly not because it's the talented but lanky Bruce Bennett.

Perhaps I'm truly a junkie for 1940s Hollywood. In all honesty, this one's a toss-up. Heads or tails you'll like it or dislike it.

The one with the brains in Smart Girls Don't Talk is Virginia Mayo, a good-bad girl a little down on her luck who's open to some fudging when it comes to a buck. So when she's gambling in Bruce Bennett's Club Bermuda the night it's knocked over, she claims her paste ear-bobs were real diamonds. Bennett, eager to cover his clients' losses so the police don't come snooping around, sees through her ruse but falls for her anyway. (He drives her off to a ritzy roadhouse where they feast on châteaubriand - and after-dinner martinis.)

When her kid brother (Robert Hutton), just appointed to the surgical staff of a New York hospital, hits town, he meets the club's canary (Helen Westcott, who treats us to `The Stars Will Remember' - twice). But he disapproves of the company Mayo keeps. Deep down, so does she, and breaks off her affair with the casino boss. In a foul temper, Bennett kills a welsher in trying to recoup a bad debt, but takes a bullet himself. He staggers back to his club where Hutton is romancing Westcott; the surgeon is press-ganged into patching Bennett up. Rebuffing a payoff, Hutton raises fears that he, too, will turn canary, and one of Bennett's trigger-happy goons shoots him down. At first, Mayo refuses to believe that Bennett could be involved in the murder. Police detective Richard Rober (`I'm a policeman - I'm paid to have suspicions') tries to change her mind, and the wheels begin to turn....

Smart Girls Don't Talk is a brisk, big-town story with serviceable work from Mayo, Bennett, Rober and Tom D'Andrea (as Bennett's 2iC). Its director, Richard Bare, would work with Mayo again the next year in Flaxy Martin, where she played a duplicitous blonde (of course, she always played a blonde). She fares better here. Mayo lacked the tense skills necessary to project a believable femme fatale, but was quite appealing as a basically decent woman who's been around the block. That's what made her so smart.